


White and Red

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Hair-pulling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6293464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Aramis does not want his hair touched, and the one time he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White and Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> This is a prompt I got well over a year ago I think for "post-savoy shit that shows aramis initially freaking out at having his head touched and eventually having him sort of develop into, fuck it just grab my hair". So. What it says on the tin, I guess.

**i.**  
When the bandages come off, piece by dried piece, his head is still tender. It still buzzes with the sounds of shouting, gunshots, blood on the snow, Marsac’s retreating back—

It is all a little too much to bear. And so Aramis bears none of it. His hair is shaved short to allow the surgeon to work at the stitches, pull them out slowly. If Aramis were of a steadier hand, he’d be able to do it better. He sits still, though, his entire back rigid, hating the feeling of fingers against his scalp. It hurts too much. It’s too painful to remember. He does not flinch away only because of the discipline that keeps his head still.

But once the surgeon is done, he coils into himself, turns away, places a hand on his head to cover the wound, the scar. It’s healed – and yet feels as if it has not healed, it’ll never heal, could never heal—

He breathes out steadily through his nose, sucks in breath with his mouth. Clenches his eyes shut. Sees blood, sees dead bodies – opens his eyes again. 

“Now then,” the surgeon says, “Let’s see if we can’t do something about—”

There’s a hand at his forehead and Aramis does flinch away this time, shakes his head. “I can do it.” 

It feels like a fire brand, hands on his head. He can’t handle it. He doesn’t want to handle it. 

 

**ii.**  
He’s still not back on active duty, his leg not yet strong enough to work with fully support – Treville still too worried about the damage to his head. He sits out on the bench in the courtyard most days, watches everyone mill around, passing and going – and feels like a ghost, ignored and watching the proceedings. 

He’s staring at the woodgrain when Porthos drops down beside him. He’s sitting in Marsac’s spot, he thinks distantly, and his throat closes up with the need to correct that, with how wrong, wrong, wrong that is—

“Hey,” Porthos says, and his voice is soft and gentle – and they are hardly friends but they are friendly, and when Aramis turns his head and looks at him, he does not see pity in Porthos’ eyes – only a kind of grim understanding. Not for the first time, Aramis wonders what’s happened in Porthos’ life for him to understand twenty dead musketeers, surviving alone. 

He swallows down words. Waits a beat. Then says, “Hello.” 

Porthos is looking at his hair, at how shaved close it is on one side, uneven. He hasn’t fixed it yet, hasn’t want anyone to put it close. – with sharp blades, with hands, with anything. 

He should really remember to wear his hat. But it rubs at the scar and makes him shudder, unhappy. But he should fix his hair so that it is less conspicuous. He knows this, and yet—

“You alright?” Porthos asks, his hand shifting, as if he’ll reach out to touch—

Aramis stands abruptly, smiling – or at least attempting to smile, it must look monstrous if Porthos’ expression is anything to go by.

“I’m alright,” he lies. Knows it’s a lie. Porthos must know, too. 

 

**iii.**   
He does not first notice when Porthos begins to spend more time with him. He thinks – it could be easy, I could just—

He thinks, he could let himself kiss him, let himself press to him. But whenever he closes his eyes, sees the blood on the snow, the pauldron on the ground as Marsac stumbled away—

It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. 

He breathes out through his nose. Porthos looks up from where he’s busy dressing down his mare, frowns at him in concern. Aramis gives him a small smile back, comes over closer, helps Porthos to remove the saddle, although Porthos hardly needs the help to hold it. He’s strong. Aramis can see the way his muscles flex beneath the tunic he’s wearing. 

“How was it today?” he asks. He will return to duty soon, but he likes to hear Porthos’ thoughts on everything. 

“Fine,” Porthos says with a shrug. “It’s been quiet today.” 

Aramis’ mouth twitches up into a pleased smile. He thinks, I could reach out and touch like this—

He thinks, I could let him touch me. 

His eyelids lower a bit as he gives Porthos a once-over – blatant, for his part, he is usually much more subtle. But Porthos just gives him a crooked smile, because of course he knows, of course Aramis wants him to know.

Aramis thinks, he could touch me—

He thinks, my hair—

He breathes out, lifts his hand and adjusts his hat – sits on his head and feels foreign. His hair isn’t long enough anymore to curl around his ears the way he likes, to cover his neck. He feels too exposed. 

“Anyway,” he says, kindly, taking a step back from the horse. “I should be going.” 

Porthos lets him go, but Aramis can feel him watching. Aramis closes his eyes – wishes that he could picture Porthos’ hands on him without the lance of pain against his chest. 

 

**iv.**   
He kisses the widow because he has been neglecting her and knows it. He likes the way her nails drag down his chest, the way nimble hands strip him down. He touches at her waist, over her back, draws her in close and kisses her. This is simple. This, at least, he can do. 

She drapes herself on him. He knows this. He can handle this much. 

She runs her fingers over his arms, his shoulders, and he begins to relax as he kisses her neck, the swell of her breasts as he frees her from her corset. This, at least, he can manage. This, at least, he can have. 

She is soft and gentle where others were not – Marsac, his name was Marsac, and he held him down and—

She at least is nothing like him, easy to lose himself in the smell of her perfume, the feel of silk and brocade beneath his fingertips. The soft expansiveness of her bed, the tilt of her knee as she curls her leg around his waist and pulls him down, the smell and taste of her as he licks from her breasts down her stomach, down lower—

He can forget, like this. He can remember what it is that he loves about this, what he loves in giving and giving and giving—

She twines her fingers through his hair—

And he can’t breathe. He jerks back with an abruptness that causes her to hiss in pain when her leg abruptly falls from where he’d draped it over his shoulder. 

“Aramis,” she says, frowning, almost ready to pout before she sees the wild look in his eye. “What’s wrong—”

“Nothing, ah,” he is quick to dismiss, curls down to her and kisses her brow, the tip of her nose – desperate to calm her, desperate to make her understand, desperate to still be needed and loved and wanted—

Don’t leave him, too—

“I only… am still recovering from a wound,” he admits, which is a half-truth but obscures most. He takes up her hands, kisses her fingertips, the knuckles, her palms, and guides them to drag down his back instead as he bends down to his task. She’s soon making those breathless, gasping sounds that he loves so dearly. He used to love it – the way she’d yank at his hair until his scalp was sore. He misses it. He wishes, God how he wishes—

If he could have that again—

This should be enough. It should be. There is a sour, curling and coiling disgust in the pit of his stomach – not at her, but at himself. 

He is broken like this. 

 

**v.**  
The first time he falls into Porthos’ bed it is quite by accident. He does not set out to seduce, does not go drinking with Porthos with the idea that this would be the end result. 

But hours later, after they have shared a bottle of wine, laughed at the week’s expense, laughed and talked and lingered – Aramis almost feels light, almost feels as if he can stomach the world again.

It is hours later and he is fucking into Porthos, and even this is more gentle than Aramis would have expected. To keep Porthos from reaching for him, from touching him, he touches him instead – curls their fingers together and pins his hands down so that he might press closer to him, kiss him like it is simple, like it is easy. 

It is too much, in some ways. He has not been with a man since Marsac, long before Savoy – and yet he cannot move away from Porthos. He is a man, but he is not like Marsac. He moans louder, as if he does not yet know to restrain them, he is large and wide but far gentler than most, gentle to an extreme that makes Aramis want to beg for anger, for hurt, for pain—

Porthos kisses him as if it is a miracle that they might have met. It’s a simple, gentle pleasure – a kind of desire, need, that he might be desirable and needed. How can he let go of that?

“Hey,” Porthos whispers against his lips, breaks the kiss, bites at his lip and squeezes their hands together. “You can go faster.” 

Aramis laughs, breathless, feels his entire body shimmer with light and love and happiness – if only for a cruel, fleeting moment, let him be happy – and he does indeed start rocking harder, rolling his hips, sliding into him and regretting that he can’t reach out and touch his cock the way he wants to, for fear of letting go of that hand, for fear of a hand touching at his hair—

When he comes inside of Porthos, slumps against him and doesn’t draw out right away, flops against him and cuddles, he thinks that it’ll be the end of it. But he reaches for Porthos’ cock, to coax him into climax – and convinces Porthos to busy his hands by fingering him open. Porthos hardly needs to be convinced of the idea, at least. He collects the come from inside himself, obscene and beautiful, and coats his fingers in oil to assist. Aramis is soon a keening, writhing mess just from that, longs to suck Porthos’ cock in tandem and fears hands in his hair – and so settles for his hand, for kissing sloppily at Porthos’ neck. 

Porthos is a throaty, weighted chuckle against the shell of his ear. He is light and gentleness, and a friend above all. Aramis could say what he needs, could say what he does not need – but the fear nestles in his gut. Do not be weak. Do not be pathetic. You will lose this. You will only ever lose this—

 

**i.**   
He watches the way Porthos laces up his clothing, the way he braids up his bandana so it stays firm on his head. The way he cleans his pistol, laces up the horse’s saddle, eats his food, deals his cards—

His hands, large and thick, are ever-so-nimble. Aramis watches the way Porthos moves with a kind of longing he can’t quite articulate. He imagines those fingers in his hair, tugging—

He lets out a small, breathless whine. 

Porthos looks up from where he’s shuffling cards, an idle tic he does in absent quietness. He frowns at Aramis, concerned. 

Aramis smiles back, helpless. Imagines how it’d feel to have Porthos grab him hard by the hair and yank him down onto his cock. He could. He could do it so easily. Aramis would mouth at him, greedy for it, but slow – slow enough that Porthos would grow impatient, yank him around. If only. 

“I don’t suppose you have a free moment right now?” Aramis asks, if ever there was a blatant _I need to touch you, I need you to touch me—_ to hear. 

Porthos’ mouth quirks into a small, thoughtful smile. He finishes shuffling his cards, pockets it, and stands from where he’s sitting – heading towards Aramis, sliding into his space so effortlessly – and when did Porthos’ presence become such a cornerstone for Aramis? When did the thought of Porthos being so far away become an impossible thought to bear—?

No matter. He leads Porthos to his bedroom. Lets Porthos go in first, follows behind him, close the door and lean against it. 

“You alright?” Porthos asks, because of course that is always the first thing he asks. 

Aramis breathes out, clenches his eyes shut. He tips forward, pours headfirst towards Porthos – who catches him, palms flat to his shoulders. But Aramis shakes his head – reaches up to grab at Porthos before he can retreat, before he can think Aramis’ distress is because he would dare to orbit too close to him.

“Please,” he says. He can’t articulate the words for a moment. He grips Porthos’ shoulders tighter, then lifts one hand to touch at his cheek. Slides down over his jaw, his neck, his chest – touches at the sharp jut of his collarbone. Touches at Porthos’ hand, weaves their fingers together as he guides Porthos’ hand up. 

Closes his eyes as he leads Porthos’ hand to his hair. Lets Porthos fold his fingers into his hair.

“Pull,” Aramis whispers – and Porthos obeys, a sharp, little tug that makes Aramis whine out. 

He squirms closer, nodding his head. 

Porthos breathes out, and Aramis opens his eyes in time to see Porthos lick his lips, frown thoughtfully, watching him so carefully. Porthos has always watched him so very carefully. But he keeps Aramis’ hair – growing now, finally growing – twisted up around his fingers. And he tugs again. It is a burst of feeling in his scalp, the smallest, tiniest rekindling to feeling – pain, but pleasure. It is better than thinking. 

He can’t stop the moan when it comes – and he lets it out, unbidden, unguarded, unashamed. Porthos pauses, shifts his hand. Aramis almost fears that Porthos will withdraw, stares at him in a quiet plea. But Porthos only moves closer, lets his thumb fan out at the cusp of his skull behind his ear, slides down in small, smoothing circles – and tugs at his hair. 

He pulls. He pulls and he pulls – but he draws Aramis back together again, as well, moves his fingertips and thumb in small little circles along the base of his head, at his neck, the bumps of his spines and back up into his hair again. 

Aramis tips his head back, whimpers out, closes his eyes and sinks into Porthos’ sure and steady touch. His hands ghost over all of him, thread through his hair, pet through it, massage at his temples. It is painfully kind, almost heating him to fire from this kindness. 

He does not want kindness. He wants the pain.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found [on my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), as always.


End file.
